


chrysanthemum

by bakayuni



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Feelings Realization, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:55:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26835526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakayuni/pseuds/bakayuni
Summary: “Whadda heck ya mean? I’ll make you a special chazuke, then. I ain’t letting you go home on an empty stomach!”Liking someone just because they do nice things was easier than Kiyoomi thought.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 8
Kudos: 76
Collections: 🐶🍙 omigiri fanfic collection





	chrysanthemum

**Author's Note:**

> When I finished this, somehow it was the Miyas' birthday... Even though it wasn't really intended as such, happy birthday, Miyas (particularly the artificial gray head one)!
> 
> Premise of the fic is based entirely on [this sketch Furudate drew](https://twitter.com/haikyu_com/status/1290570651233730560?s=20), and [this particular translation.](https://twitter.com/todokugou/status/1290611769522761728) The summary narration itself was taken from a particular chapter in Kaguya-sama: Love is War manga. Go read it; it's very nice and very funny.
> 
> Lastly, happy reading!

It was at the MSBY Black Jackals vs. Schweiden Adlers after party.

Considering the team members’ history with each other, it came to no one’s surprise that a gathering was in order. Kiyoomi thought to go home straight away, truly, but his team members wouldn’t have it (particularly those incessant trio). Besides, it has been a while since his last chat with Wakatoshi.

They ended up going to a restaurant near Karasuno High School. The two alumnus in their teams recommended it; citing about how their high school team was always a regular customer, to this day. Some other alumnus of Karasuno ended up getting roped into the gathering by Kageyama and Hinata, along with Miya’s twin. Neither of the teams minded, so they eventually went along for the ride.

Once they arrived, Kiyoomi promptly sat down at the end of the table, next to Wakatoshi and in front of one of the Karasuno alumnus who joined them—Sawamura, was it? He seemed amicable, at the very least. Just because he didn’t mind coming along, didn’t mean he was ready to throw himself right into a lion’s den. Glancing at the other end of the table, Kiyoomi shivered. No, thank you.

Despite everything, he didn’t really expect much from it. It was just a gathering of men, some beers would be drank and food will be inhaled, the usual thing. Maybe some nostalgia would be mixed in from their high school days, but that was it.

He was just chatting with Wakatoshi about the different ways of spiking when he caught the whiff of something smelling good—oncoming food, he concluded. He pulled down his mask in preparation. But then, he saw him.

He didn’t realize Miya’s twin wasn’t in the table with them—until he saw him coming to the table, serving them multiple plates of onigiri.

Kiyoomi was slightly astonished. This wasn’t Onigiri Miya branch, wasn’t it?

Hinata and Kageyama shot up from their seats to help him—probably feeling obligated to help with their pseudo-hosts position. Miya’s brother grinned up at them in appreciation. “The lovely lady who owned the restaurant permitted me into the kitchen, so I made some riceballs from today’s sales leftover for y’all. Hope yer hungry for some Miya original onigiri,” he said, smiling at the team.

Bokuto instantly cheered in excitement, declaring that he was the best Miya ever—to the indignant noise of their team’s Miya. The others also quickly thanked him, to which Miya’s brother just waved them off. “Thank Atsumu—he’s the one paying these,” he smirked, sly as a fox. Miya only had time to squawk in disbelief before both of their team members’ undoubtedly unwashed filthy paws got their hands all over him; ruffling his hair and patting him on the back roughly. At that point, Kiyoomi knew Miya could only sigh in defeat.

Kiyoomi sneaked a glance at Miya’s brother over the cup of tea he’s drinking. Truly as sly as a fox.

The piping hot onigiris were instantly distributed evenly to each and every seat; probably to prevent infighting. Onigiri Miya’s food was famous in his team, after all; each time Miya brought them some, there was always blood ready to be shed for the leftovers.

In the end, it was always resolved by rock-paper-scissors, but the point still stands.

He was just watching the others fight over portions when Wakatoshi handed him a plateful of onigiri, and Kiyoomi’s hand shot out automatically.

“Ah, it’s okay. I’ll pass.”

The table suddenly became silent, with all eyes on him. He could already see his team members’ eyes glinting.

Right. He forgot. He was, after all, the sole reason why the onigiris Miya brought for the team always had leftovers—Miya never bothered to remember that he wasn’t supposed to include a portion for him.

Unfortunately, this isn’t the usual team practice, Kiyoomi realized—because suddenly Miya’s brother was right beside him, eyes wide and eyebrows disappearing behind his cap.

“You’ll pass? Why?” he asked, eyebrows knitting together. “Is it not good? It ain't to your liking?”

Ah. Right. Miya’s brother wasn’t just the one who sells the onigiris, he was the actual cook.

Kiyoomi coughed slightly. He hadn’t wanted to offend him by his comment. Considering the frenzy his team underwent everytime Miya brought them some, Kiyoomi was sure the onigiris Miya’s brother made was plenty good. Within the background of the cacophony of the others’ fight for his portion, Kiyoomi calmly stated his reason. “It’s not that I think your onigiris are bad,” he said, “I just don’t want to eat riceballs molded by other people’s hands.”

At that, Miya’s brother blinked. Twice, he counted.

Then, he heard Miya’s voice from the other side of the table. “Don’t mind him, Samu!” he exclaimed between munches like the nasty devil he was. Kiyoomi scrunched his nose in distaste. “He’s just weird like that! He never eat the ones I brought before, too, and his answer was always the same!” Miya stated, elaborating Kiyoomi’s point. Not that Kiyoomi needed more clarification—he thinks what he said was plenty concise and to the point, really.

Thinking their combined explanation had satisfied Miya’s brother, Kiyoomi turned to look at him again. Miya’s brother’s mouth was still open, though now only one eyebrow was hidden behind his cap. If anything, he looked even more confused. Kiyoomi frowned; was his reason so hard to believe?

Miya’s brother wasn’t looking at him, though—he was still looking at his brother. “Haah? Whadda heck ya mean?” he finally said, seemingly founding words again. Then, he turned to Kiyoomi. “So, basically, ya can’t eat something made by someone else?”

“Someone’s hands,” Kiyoomi clarified, “I can’t stand the thought that my food has been touched by someone’s hands.” After a beat of consideration, he added, “Sorry about that.”

He still didn’t look like he was anywhere near to understanding. Just as Kiyoomi thought that he was going to get into a stupor with his glazed and unfocused eyes, he shook himself at the last second. Then, he looked at Kiyoomi again, his gaze clear and resolute.

Kiyoomi was suddenly reminded—of a certain time, of a youth bygone. Of a certain match in his second year of high school—no, not just a certain match. The final match of Inter-high, he remembered. Back then, he had those eyes looking like that at him, too—except they were obscured by the crisscross of a net, then.

He was reminded of the time when he was forced to reassess his evaluations—Miya Osamu was not Miya Atsumu, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of shining just as bright as his brother.

The sound of clapping in front of his face startled Kiyoomi out of his reverie. Kiyoomi’s cheeks colored a bit—he couldn’t believe he let his mind wander like that.

“Okay, then,” Miya’s brother’s—no, Miya Osamu’s—voice floated to his ears, sounding no less resolute than before. His hands were put together—he was the one who clapped just now, then. Kiyoomi hoped that clap was meant to psyche himself up or something and not to bring Kiyoomi back down to earth earlier—it would be beyond embarrassing to be caught zoning out. “If you can’t eat an onigiri, I’ll make ya a special chazuke, then. I ain’t letting ya go on an empty stomach!” Miya Osamu exclaimed.

It was Kiyoomi’s turn to blink. What?

Before Kiyoomi could put a hand out to—protest, stop him, say something about the impossibility of him getting out on an empty stomach from a _restaurant—_ that Miya had already stormed off. Back to the kitchen, he presumed.

Kiyoomi miffed. Apparently, both brothers were just as stubborn in their unwillingness to listen.

He slumped in his seat, resigned. Feeling a prickle from his left side, Kiyoomi turned—

—to find Wakatoshi staring at him, mouth still chewing. “What?” he bristled, unconsciously defensive. Wakatoshi’s gaze felt accusatory, somehow.

Wakatoshi didn’t reply—just kept staring at him. Kiyoomi didn’t let up his gaze, too. He wouldn’t lose in this—whatever contest they were having between them.

After a few seconds, Wakatoshi turned away, apparently finding out whatever it was he was searching. He went back to his own plate, ready to scoop more food. Kiyoomi breathed out; glad for whatever that was to be over. He turned to his own plate, intending to begin eating too (the plate of onigiris that was meant for him was long empty, he noticed). Just then, he caught Sawamura’s eyes in front of him—though he quickly looked away. Feeling weirded out, Kiyoomi frowned; what was with everyone?

Oh well. If Miya Osamu was that adamant in cooking for him, it wasn’t as if Kiyoomi would complain much. He wouldn’t ever say this to anyone, but. Those steaming hot onigiris the others were eating _do_ look delicious.

He wouldn’t mind eating an equivalent, he thinks.

* * *

He didn’t need to wait long—ten minutes later, his chazuke arrived, with Miya Osamu serving it right on his table. Perhaps it was to be expected. He doubted Miya Osamu ever put out nothing short of an exemplary service in all his years of being in the food industry.

Like the riceballs, it was still hot; he could feel the heat wafting up his face. It also smelled really good—he was sure that if he was wearing his mask, it would still smell no less appealing. Involuntarily, he felt his mouth water.

Kiyoomi internally cringed in disgust at himself. Really? Had he put himself to so low a level he was actually _drooling?_

“Dig in!” he heard Miya Osamu beside him. “Unfortunately, I didn’t get to make as much chazuke as I’d like, so I ain't all that confident in it,” he disclosed almost sheepishly. Then, he seemed to catch himself, hastily adding, “I ain't sayin' that as an excuse, though! If it ain't delicious, then it ain't delicious. Still,” he said, voice softening into a whisper, “I do hope you enjoy it.”

Kiyoomi could only nod. Again, he doubted the food in front of him could be anything but good, but Kiyoomi held his tongue. Right now, there were other, better uses for his mouth than to speak, he thought.

Taking out the metal chopsticks in his backpack (he swore he heard Miya Osamu’s startled laugh beside him), Kiyoomi got himself ready to finally learn the wonderment of Onigiri Miya cuisine.

It looked exquisite, at least. He felt a little pity that he has to destroy the image, but; it was the taste that counts, he reasoned. Without further preamble, he dunked the rice completely into the broth. Putting the bowl near his mouth, Kiyoomi finally started to eat.

He chewed. Gulped. Took another bite.

Chewed. Gulped. Drank the soup. Took another bite.

Repeat.

It felt like forever and too short at the same time, was what Kiyoomi thought. Licking his lips, he put the empty bowl quietly onto the table.

He was just sitting silently, almost entering Zen state as he reveled in the after taste; when he jolted, suddenly realizing something.

Miya Osamu was still beside him.

Reeling his head to his right in surprise, Kiyoomi was certain. In his moment of weakness, he had let the man witness it. He had witnessed Kiyoomi gulped down food without a care for any kind of table manners in the world.

Unsurprisingly, Miya Osamu was smiling beside him.

His cheeks and ears are burning, and not subtly. Discreetly, he checked the other occupants of the seats near him—good. They were preoccupied with their own meals. That meant the witness to Kiyoomi’s humiliation was down to one. That didn’t make it less mortifying.

He groaned, quickly pulling up his mask. He didn’t dare to look at the man standing beside him.

“So,” Miya Osamu began. If he was anything like his brother, Kiyoomi suspected he wouldn’t ever hear the end of it. Kiyoomi didn’t want to hear it.

“Can I take that as you liking the chazuke? Or was it so bad, ya gotta keep eating to prevent yourself from throwing up in the middle of it?” He heard him laughing a bit—but it was stilted.

Surprised, Kiyoomi turned back his eyes on him. Sure enough, Miya Osamu’s teasing smile had turned almost uneasy.

Safe behind the knowledge that his mask was on, Kiyoomi let his mouth fall open. What? How was Miya Osamu still doubting his borderline-divine creation?

Kiyoomi cleared his throat, unsure how to proceed. “It was good,” he settled. In truth, it was much more than good—it was easily one of the best food he has ever eaten. But he wasn’t sure how to tell him that without sounding—crazed. Obsessed.

He embarrassed himself enough times today. He drew the line at doing it again.

Even with his admittedly lackluster answer, Miya Osamu’s smile widened; his eyes brightened. Passingly, it reminded him of his elementary school’s summer project with Motoya—of the time he watched their chrysanthemum unfurling to a complete bloom in front of them.

He harshly blinked himself out of it. No more mind-wandering, Kiyoomi.

“Ya think it was good? Honest?” He grinned outright now, eyes never leaving Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi swallowed. “Ya ain't just saying that to appease me, didja? Ya ain’t that kinda guy,” he concluded by himself, and somehow his grin got even bigger.

Again, Kiyoomi could only nod. It was true; Kiyoomi wasn’t the sort of guy to compliment others without meaning it. Then again—Kiyoomi chanced a look at Miya Osamu’s hands. The blisters of volleyball has long since faded; instead, it was replaced with the peeling of his skin all over his palms—no doubt from endless hours molding scalding hot rice into the shape of riceballs. Kiyoomi might not be on board with the idea of hands touching food, but he could appreciate the efforts that went behind it.

So, unmistakably—Kiyoomi reaffirmed—Miya Osamu no doubt deserved every compliments regarding his food anyone can offer him.

Seemingly satisfied, Miya Osamu finally left his side to take his own seat near his brother after that—right, he was actually here as a guest. Not a cook. Carefully watching to make sure Miya Osamu sat down properly and had joined some kind of conversation, Kiyoomi sighed. He tried not to slump too much into his seat—it was bad posture, after all—but some moments, he couldn’t help it.

He felt both overwhelmed and relaxed. It was a weird feeling. Kiyoomi twisted his mouth in displeasure.

He never was quite a fan of mystery. Or any mysterious things. Or mysterious feelings.

Shaking his head, he straightened himself. He still felt hungry. It was a shame to replace that chazuke’s aftertaste, to be honest, but he still had duties to his stomach. Preparing to take some more food (in the time he was waiting for and eating his chazuke, more food has been laid down on the table), except he saw Wakatoshi in his peripheral vision, staring at him. Again.

Kiyoomi quickly swiveled his head towards him. “What?” he growled. He rarely felt irritated around Wakatoshi, but he felt that this time warranted it. What exactly was his problem?

Wakatoshi only blinked slowly. “Nothing,” he replied, just as slowly.

“If it was nothing, you wouldn’t keep staring at me every chance you get, Wakatoshi-kun.”

He hummed. “You’re right,” nodding to himself, Wakatoshi added, “I was just thinking how considerate of Miya Osamu-san to make you a special chazuke when he knew you couldn’t eat an onigiri, is all.”

Kiyoomi blinked. Wakatoshi’s right. “You’re right,” he said as much to him. “I should thank him later.” Wakatoshi nodded at that, finally looking away.

That’s right. What Miya Osamu had done for him was very considerate. He didn’t have to cook him anything else—it was his own preferences that caused him to refuse Miya’s riceballs. If anything, it could be said that it was Kiyoomi’s fault—for being picky, some said in the past. But Miya Osamu did it anyway.

With newfound resolve, he scooped up more rice into his bowl—the bowl previously used for the chazuke. Maybe this way, some of the taste would seep into his rice, still.

After. Kiyoomi would thank him after everything was done.

* * *

It was late at night when they finally finished. The other Karasuno alumnus had retired earlier, since they had work tomorrow. The two teams are saying their goodbyes by the bus—though he couldn’t see Hinata or Kageyama anywhere. Oh well, that wasn’t his problem right now.

Searching around the area, he finally saw him—carrying his piss-drunk brother over his shoulder, alongside Bokuto. Kiyoomi couldn’t say he was surprised. Miya never was able to hold his liquor.

Approaching them slowly, he made sure he got into Miya Osamu’s line of sight before he spoke. Though when he did, it wasn’t directed at him; instead, he turned to Bokuto. “Can I borrow Miya Osamu for a bit? You can handle him by yourself for a while, right?” he gestured to the almost-unconscious guy with his chin.

Bokuto beamed back in reply. Kiyoomi grimaced automatically, though Bokuto didn’t seem to notice. Honestly, it was much too dark for this. “Sure! Leave him to me! I’ll put him into the bus right now!” Bokuto declared, voice much too loud and enthusiastic for the dead of the night. Kiyoomi refrained himself from plugging his ears.

He saw Miya Osamu’s mouth hang open slightly in the corner of his eyes—he probably didn’t expect this turn of events. Honestly, if someone told him before the match that he would end today with a private conversation with a teammate’s brother he personally barely knew, Kiyoomi wouldn’t have expected it to really happen either. Well, he mused. Unexpected, yes, but he had to admit; not completely unbelievable.

After watching Bokuto trudged inside the bus slowly with Miya in tow, Miya Osamu turned to him, a small smile playing on his lips. “Ya know, didja always have to refer to me with my full name like that?” he crossed his arms, “ain't that a real pain?”

Kiyoomi furrowed his brows. It was starting to be a handful, he’d admit, but—“How else should I call you?”

Miya Osamu shrugged. “Just call me by my name like everybody else does,” he offered easily, “don’tcha call 'Tsumu by his name, too?”

Kiyoomi certainly did not. “I just called him Miya.”

Unexpectedly, Miya Osamu snorted at that—though he quickly put his hand up to his mouth to muffle it. “That does sound like you, yeah,” he managed between stifling laughter, “but that'd make referring to me even more doubly confusing, ain't it?”

Kiyoomi mulled at that statement for a while. “Maybe,” he acquiesced.

“Yeah?” Miya Osamu—just Osamu?—said, putting his hand down, “Then just call me Osamu. I don’t mind.” Looking thoughtful, he added, “Real nice of ya to ask first, though. I appreciate it.”

Just Osamu it is, then.

Not knowing what to do, Kiyoomi nodded. He didn’t think he did something that could warrant an appreciation, to be honest. Especially considering he was just complying with what Miya—just Osamu, he reminded himself—proposed. Plus, he was here to give out his own appreciation—which he still hadn’t done.

Before he had the chance to talk, Osamu beat him to it. “So, ya were wanting ta talk to me, Sakusa-kun? What for?” he asked, clearly and to the point. Must be the type that didn’t beat around the bush. Just as well.

It occurred to Kiyoomi that he should probably offer Osamu the use of his name, too, but. It didn’t seem to bother him, and Kiyoomi wasn’t sure he’d like it if a semi-acquaintance just up and called his given name like that. So he held his tongue again.

“Well,” Kiyoomi cleared his throat. Best to get it over with. Expressions of emotions was never his best forte, but he had to do it; it was only proper. That was why he started this conversation in the first place. “I just wanted to thank you. For your consideration.”

Osamu raised his eyebrow. “My consideration?”

Kiyoomi nodded. “The chazuke,” he added, in case it wasn’t clear. “It was very kind of you to make me one even though I rejected your onigiri.”

He made an ‘ahh’ sound, then, fist thumping his open palm. “That? Think nothing of it, Sakusa-kun,” he paused, “I should be the one thanking you, in fact.” He slowly smiled—and Kiyoomi swore he saw the blooming chrysanthemum coming back in the background. Kiyoomi ignored it with much effort.

Registering Osamu's statement, It was Kiyoomi’s turn to raise his eyebrow. “Thanking me? For what?”

“Well, I did tell ya I didn’t make as much chazuke as I would’ve liked, yeah?” Osamu clarified, putting his hands on his hips. “So, in a way, you were doing me a favor by making me practice making it again. Heck, ya were basically my guinea pig!” He laughed, though the sound wasn’t harsh or piercing. It was kinda—flowy. Like curtains ruffling when the wind tickled. Or trees swaying when a breeze passed through.

Kiyoomi has got to stop doing that.

He found himself nodding again, once more not finding the right words to say. Somehow, in the short span of time he talked with Osamu, it felt like he was rendered speechless much too often for his liking.

Kiyoomi fidgeted where he stood. Let’s just get this over with, he thought.

“Well then,” Kiyoomi started, “if that was it—“

“Ah, wait!” Osamu suddenly exclaimed, interrupting Kiyoomi. “That means you never ate my onigiri before, huh? Man, I never suspected a thing, since 'Tsumu always ordered for every member of the team.” Osamu breathed out, brows pinched together in—disbelief? Or ire at his brother? Kiyoomi didn’t know.

“Ya know what? Next time, I’ll make you yer portion of the onigiris—but I’ll make sure to wear plastic gloves to mold it. How 'bout it?”

Kiyoomi blinked, taken aback. Huh? He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted before he even got a chance to utter something. Though since he was wearing his mask, it was entirely possible Osamu just didn’t think he was going to speak.

“Don’t worry—I’ll make sure the gloves will be sanitized beforehand, of course. So? No complaints, yeah?”

Kiyoomi was stunned. “…You don’t have to do that,” he said finally. “I don’t want to impose.” But as he was saying it, a thought occurred to him, then. If he could wear plastic gloves, then—“why don’t you wear gloves all the time in the first place, if you were going to do that for me anyway?” Kiyoomi asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Osamu looked surprised at that. He crossed his arms, eyes looking up into—nothing in particular, it seemed. He was thinking, Kiyoomi guessed.

“I could do that, yeah,” Osamu closed his eyes, “but I just felt more… in my element, if I use my hands directly, ya know? It was, kinda like…” his sentence petered out, hand shooting up to gesture vaguely.

After a few seconds of silence, he opened his eyes to look at Kiyoomi directly. “Right,” he affirmed, seemingly having founded his answer, “it was kinda like setters, I guess? They ain't really fond of something—tapes or bandages, anything—to obstruct their handle of the ball. Ya get what I’m sayin’?” Then he paused a bit, considering. “At least, 'Tsumu was like that. I don’t really know about other setters.”

Kiyoomi understood. Miya was indeed like that—and so were the setters of his previous teams. In particular, he remembered the captain of his high school team, who was so thorough in his fingers’ management in every match and practice that even if Kiyoomi hadn’t wanted to, he would’ve had no choice but to respect him.

“Then,” Kiyoomi spoke, “wouldn’t you using gloves to make riceballs be detrimental to your… work?” Particularly proud setters would never let them know, but Miya was always more pissy if he had to get his hands taped for whatever reason. If Osamu was anything like his brother, Kiyoomi wouldn’t imagine him being happy not to use his hands to mold the onigiris he was so proud of.

Somehow, Osamu grinned at that. “Well, that’s where the similarities with volleyball ended, I suppose,” he said, humming slightly to himself. “Unlike setters and their particulars,” Osamu interrupted himself with a laugh, “we in the food industry are more than happy to adapt. ’S not like every single customer’s taste is the same—if it was, things wouldn’t be so hard.”

Kiyoomi frowned, not understanding. “But I’m not your customer,” he tried to clarify, “I’m just someone who get freebies because my teammate is your brother. You have no obligation to adapt to my tastes.”

Again, Osamu was stunned into silence. Kiyoomi felt a little satisfaction in knowing that he wasn’t the only one who was rendered speechless too many times in this conversation.

Finally, he shrugged, looking helpless. “I dunno,” he muttered, “I just wanted ya to eat my food. I mean, I’m happy when many people eat my food. Happier still, when they’re happy eatin’ ‘em.” He twisted his mouth, suddenly looking very unsure. “Was that so hard to believe?”

It wasn’t. Kiyoomi understood him loud and clear.

Still, though. “If you’re going that far, I’ll have to pay you for your service, then,” Kiyoomi nodded to himself, “it’s only fair, considering the extra effort you’ll undertake.”

“Ahh no, don’t!” Osamu flailed his hands suddenly, looking flustered. Why would he be flustered? “There ain't no way I’m charging you for something I clearly decided for myself!” sighing, he took off his cap to mess with his hair—or fix it, Kiyoomi didn’t know. Whatever the intention behind it, his hair was still in disarray, nonetheless. Just before he put his cap back on, Kiyoomi registered something in his mind.

Osamu’s hair really was completely black, now.

Not that Kiyoomi ever saw him with his natural hair before; he only knew Osamu from their high school days, where the top of his head had already been ash gray. Perhaps, now that he wasn’t standing on the same stage as his brother, he felt no need to dye it any longer.

Just another thing that changed in all these years—though it was decidedly a nice change, in Kiyoomi’s book. Black hair suited him, Kiyoomi thinks.

Wait, did he just gave a secondary compliment to Miya, somehow? He blanched. Better keep that observation to himself for now.

“Anyway!” Osamu suddenly continued, consequently breaking Kiyoomi out of his reverie. God, how many times did he do that today? Kiyoomi really had to get a grip. “I’m giving you special, hands-free onigiris, whether you like it or not, ya hear me?” he moved like he was about to point at Kiyoomi, though he seemed to think better of it.

“Just think of it as a favor for me—no doubt folks like you would arrive sooner or later into my shop, too, anyway.” He closed his eyes whilst nodding to himself, seemingly satisfied with his own solution. “So as I was saying, I’m just gonna use you as my guinea pig to get me used to making riceballs without my hands directly touching it.”

“So, how ‘bout it, Sakusa-kun? Sound like a good deal?” Osamu grinned, unabashed. This time, Kiyoomi could clearly see the chrysanthemum standing proudly as it shone in the sun.

Less noticeably, the left side of his mouth quirked up higher than his right when he smiled, Kiyoomi noted.

Kiyoomi sighed, then nodded. “If that’s what you want.” What else could he say to that?

Miya Osamu really, truly was a human adamant on his unwillingness to listen.

After that, Kiyoomi bid him and the others goodbye, following those who had entered into the bus earlier. As he sat down, the image of that chrysanthemum smile still followed into his eyelids.

Pressing his forehead to window, Kiyoomi sighed. As he looked out beyond the fog his breath created, he saw the faint lines of Osamu’s figure, waving slightly to his direction. Successfully holding himself from doing a double take, Kiyoomi also raised his hand to wave back, if only for a second. He swore he saw Osamu’s grin widen before his eyes strayed from Kiyoomi onto the other seats; searching for his brother, he presumed.

Kiyoomi contemplated the warmth in his stomach. The chazuke was the only thing he could think of—being the tastiest and the warmest food he ate tonight—except that was hours ago.

When he was still mulling about the warmth in his stomach, Kiyoomi suddenly jolted in his seat, back now ramrod straight with the knowledge that suddenly became clear. 

He never actually called Osamu by his name in their earlier conversation. How embarrassing it was, to be given permission to use one's name yet not use it at all?

A few minutes later, Hinata entered the bus. He promptly sat down next to Kiyoomi—who didn’t really pay him any mind, except to say, “You’re the last one into the bus.”

He saw Hinata gulping in the window’s reflection. Or maybe he didn’t, Kiyoomi really wasn’t paying much attention. He was still busy cursing himself for his idiocy.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that, Sakusa-san,” he smiled sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck, “I was chatting with Kageyama and we kinda lost track of the time—it’s been awhile since we last saw each other!”

“I bet,” Kiyoomi muttered.

However, it seemed Hinata wasn’t done with him yet. “What’re you looking at all this time, Sakusa-san? Oh, is that Osamu-san?” Kiyoomi’s ears burned with the realization that he was caught staring. Before he was able to retort, Hinata barreled on. “Hey, Osamu-san!” He whisper-shouted—or something. Kiyoomi didn’t think Osamu would hear it even if he shouted anyway. At least he had the decency to not _really_ shout, something which would piss off Kiyoomi even further.

Somehow though, one way or another, Osamu really did turn his eyes to look back at his direction. Hinata quickly took the opportunity to wave exuberantly at him—a gesture Osamu tried to match in enthusiasm, though it was clear he lacked the necessary energy. Then Osamu met his eyes again. Unlike before, Osamu’s smile didn’t widen—instead, it became small, and his eyes softened.

Nodding quickly to end whatever silent conversation those eyes seemed to be trying to convey, Kiyoomi hastily looked away.

Thunking his head to the headrest, he exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Whether in relief or apprehension, Kiyoomi didn’t know. In the corner of his eyes, he saw Hinata resting his head behind him too, though his posture was far more relaxed. Thankfully, he didn’t mention the—staring, if he noticed at all.

Lamenting the events of today—what did and didn't happen—Kiyoomi knew he should stop kidding himself. Wakatoshi’s words swirled inside his head. He sighed for what felt like the hundredth time.

It was the first time he thought someone’s selfishness felt nice.

Apparently, liking someone just because they do nice things was easier than he thought.

* * *

Later on, after they had another match, Miya brought them multiple packages of his brother’s onigiri.

It was futile trying to hide his jumpiness, it seemed, because Miya quickly smirked when he turned to face Kiyoomi.

Rustling inside the plastic bags, Miya took out a container. “Here,” he said, handing the bento box to him, “my dear brother said this one was made especially for you—sanitized and all.” He didn’t bother to conceal the smug all over his voice. Bastard.

Kiyoomi took it without a word—he wasn’t going to give Miya the satisfaction of being right on the mark. Quickly walking away from his teammates, he searched for a spot to sit quietly. Once comfortable, he inspected the box thoroughly.

There was a card inside.

Carefully opening the lid, he took out the card—making sure his hand didn’t touch the riceballs. It would be a shame to waste all Osamu’s effort into making them as clean as possible. The card itself was wrapped in a plastic cover—most probably to prevent it from smudging or dirtying the food.

Giving it a read through, Kiyoomi let himself smile. Putting the card to his jacket pocket and exchanging it to the hand sanitizer he always carried inside, Kiyoomi started cleaning his hands. Finally, he took one big bite of the onigiri.

It wasn’t hot anymore, naturally—but Kiyoomi felt the warmth in his stomach all the same.

It was the most delicious onigiri Kiyoomi had ever eaten.

* * *

_“Sakusa-kun, here’s the riceballs I promised. Even though I couldn’t mold it directly, I made sure to pour everything I had into it. Hope you enjoy! Also, don’t forget to give me feedback on it!_

_P.S. If ya didn’t feel like passing the message through ‘Tsumu, here’s my phone number. In fact, I’ll be waiting directly for your thoughts, so please do contact me._

_+81XX-XXX-XXX_

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: I edited some dialogues to make it flow smoother. Also some of Osamu's, since more often than not I forgot give him his accent. Hopefully it didn't ruin things and instead make it better.
> 
> If you think the scenario looked like maybe a tiny bit—or too similar to my other fic..... Look away.
> 
> This fic ran away from me to be a 5k monstrosity—and for me, that was a gargantuan amount. I'm very proud of myself.
> 
> Lastly, I hope you enjoyed it! Kudos and comments would be very much appreciated.


End file.
